


Fractured

by skamander



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone takes care of and comforts Newt, F/M, Gang Rape, Gramander, M/M, Post-Movie, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Terrible things happen to Newt, Very dark at first, Will be very sad at first, Will get happier later on, future smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12120741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skamander/pseuds/skamander
Summary: Newt returns to New York with his finished manuscript. He meets the real Percival Graves and there's a spark between the two men. But then something unthinkable happens to Newt and it's up to his old and new friends to pick up the pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

Birds. It was his first indication they were approaching land. The _Larus Argentus_ , more commonly known as the Herring Gull, or seagull in layman’s terms, always circled around the ports, waiting eagerly to swoop down and pinch a meal from the arriving fish boats. 

It was late afternoon and Newt Scamander stood at the bow of the _R.M.S. Majestic_ , one hand gripping the handle of an unassuming brown leather suitcase, the other wrapped around the iron railing. He drummed his fingers on the cool metal, the sea air tossing his unruly hair.

Newt had written to Tina to tell her his manuscript was finished and she’d immediately written back to invite him to visit and stay as long as he possibly could. An advanced copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ was a comforting weight in his pocket, destined for Tina’s hands. They’d kept in contact since his return to England; Tina apprising him of all the latest news. Queenie, of course, had not been able to resist and gone to visit Jacob at his brand new bakery. It had taken all of five seconds for them to lock eyes and for Jacob to remember everything. Newt had always known his first New York friend would regain his memory, and frankly, he was counting on it. After all, Jacob was the only muggle who didn’t have “bad memories” of the events that had occurred.

The excitement swelling in his heart crafted a feeling of déjà vu as he remembered the first time he’d arrived in New York. The apprehension and the loneliness. This time, however, there was a sense of ease. He had a home to go to. He had friends. Newt’s insides rushed in time with the lively waves. He bounced once lightly on the balls of his feet as the ship docked at port. 

Newt breezed through customs with leisure this time. His confidence held as the officer checked his bag with its new improved Muggle-Worthy switch and fail-safe locks. “Welcome to New York,” the man told him, eager to keep the line moving.

Stepping out of the port and moving into the flowing of the city, Newt was reminded again of how lost he was on his first visit. Now he smiled to himself at how effortlessly and naturally he navigated the streets towards the Goldsteins’ new address. He glanced about him at his fellow streetmates. His gait almost fit in. _One of the locals_. The thought made him smirk.

The air was cool and sharp in his lungs. The last dregs of summer were withdrawing and autumn swept into the city to claim its throne. Newt loved this time of year.

A small screech split the air above his head. Newt looked up to find a grey owl with bright yellow eyes hovering before it dropped a letter into his hands. He looked around. No one noticed the bird. Whoever had sent him had the foresight of casting a charm. Newt hurried to dig into one of his many coat pockets and fed the owl a treat, sending him on his way.

The petite, neat scrawl of one Tina Goldstein greeted Newt as he looked down at the letter. Opening it, he read a short missive from his friend letting him know she was running late at work and why not stop by and see her at MACUSA?

Newt’s feet twisted to adjust his path apparently of their own accord as his eyes scanned the note. Yes, definitely one of the locals.

MACUSA seemed to find Newt before he knew it. The imposing stone face of the Woolworth Building towered over him, a parent staring down at a disobedient child. Newt blinked up at it defiantly as he swallowed down his wariness of anything magical government related and pushed open the door.

He slipped smoothly through the ward that kept the American wizarding congress from the 'No-Majs.' The rush of witches and wizards going this way and that on official business almost overwhelmed Newt, but he was determined to press on. He rode an elevator with a rather disgruntled house elf. Stepped off on the tenth floor, his eyes darted around for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A gold embossed sign at the top of the left wing indicated his next step and he was off. 

As he wended his way through the twisting hallways lined with numerous doors, he gave little attention to the people who greeted him. It wasn’t rudeness on his part. On the contrary, those who actually did greet Newt, his anxiety afforded them a thin-lipped smile, sometimes accompanied by a brief nod. However, he was amazed to find that some, especially Aurors, glowered at him or outright turned their faces away in annoyance and disgust. His teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip as he concentrated on the inky, shining tile floors.

Why were they treating him like some pariah? Alright sure, the last time he was here, he and his creatures had caused them a bit of a headache, but he and Tina had cleaned up that mess quickly and relatively neatly, Newt thought. It was the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald who had caused them the real problem. And it was Newt that had helped reveal and capture him. 

Newt passed a very gloomy, very narrow hallway. His body halted. Time slowed and he became mesmerized by the tall figure of a man standing at the very back of the long path. A lofty, thin window silhouetted the man into an imposing shape and yet Newt moved towards him. The familiar celluloid feeling of passing through a magical ward enveloped Newt and released him on the other side. It was eerie and quiet, all din of bodies moving and working completely drowned out. 

His feet stopped just in front of the tall man, whose features remain shrouded in shadows as he leaned towards Newt. The man’s breath was warm as it spread over Newt’s face, the only sign he was indeed human. 

“You have committed egregious acts, Mr. Scamander.” The voice was dark and cold as coal. It felt disembodied, for Newt could not see the man’s mouth move. “It would behoove you to leave this city.” 

“But I—” Newt began, but was quickly cut off. 

“No arguments. Leave, or you will be brought to your knees as you have done to others.” Barely stifled rage festered hot in the man’s words. 

A steely fist closed over Newt’s heart and he struggled to keep his breath even. 

“Go now,” the man said. “Leave this place and leave this city. I will know if you do not.”

Newt turned as fast as he could manage and almost ran away. The light of the main wing hit blaring and vivid in his eyes as he tumbled out of the hallway. The trance that held him dropped its suffocating hold. A few people eyed him with vague curiosity as he tried not to barrel down the hall. The man’s words rang in his head. Leave? He couldn’t possibly _leave_. What would he say to Tina? He didn’t want to disappoint her. And who in the world had he brought to their knees? Newt had never done that to anyone in his life. He wasn’t nearly important enough. No, this was some kind of mistake. Had to be. And there were thousands of wizards in New York. There was no conceivable way for the man to know if Newt was still there. He would not leave.

He took a few deep, juddering breaths to calm himself, shedding bits of his anxiety with each step, leaving it behind like footprints. 

Rounding a corner, he found Tina only a few feet away, talking to a wizard whose back was to Newt. There was something familiar about the tall wizard, who said something quietly to Tina. She laughed, her eyes shutting tight. Her happiness was infectious and Newt smiled. Tina opened her eyes to say something, but spotted Newt. A grin split her features as she abandoned her conversation and ran towards him.

Newt succeeded in keeping his balance when his lithe friend jumped into his arms. “It’s alright, Tina,” he murmured as he set her down gently on her feet. Clearing her throat, she wiped away brimming tears and examined Newt. She could sense something, he was sure. 

“Are you okay? You seem…” Tina said, her dark eyes searching his face. 

Newt considered for a moment about telling Tina what happened but was quick to decide against it. She would just worry. He drove the rest of his tension out with an exhale and put as much nonchalance into his words as he could manage. “Just fine, don’t fret. It’s simply travel fatigue, I’m sure.” 

He was saved from further inquiry when the wizard Tina had been talking to approached them. Newt cast a furtive glance at the man’s face, and somewhere just behind his ribs, his insides did a somersault. 

Percival Graves. 

The older man kept silent as he regarded Newt. 

“Newt, this is Director Percival Graves. Director, this is Mr. Newt Scamander.” Tina spoke as if neither man had ever met the other, which, in truth, they had not. A tense spark passed between the two men as the older waited for fear while the younger waited for vexation. 

Neither man received the sentence they thought they deserved. 

Newt bounced lightly on his feet twice before extending his hand, surprised at his own sociability. Jacob would be proud. “It’s an honor, Director Graves.” 

He forced his gaze up and looked at the Director from under the shock of burnished gold curls that fell across his brow.

Astonishment slipped across Graves’s features before he swiftly schooled them into place. The faintest hint of a smile toyed with the corners of his lips as he shook Newt’s hand. The younger man’s fingers were slender and rough in his own. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Scamander. Shall we three retreat to my office to talk? It’s just this way.”

The sweeping office of the Director of Magical Law Enforcement was all rich mahogany wood, from the imposingly large desk to the towering bookshelves that lined almost every inch of the walls aside from the floor to ceiling windows that covered the wall behind the desk. There were Persian carpets and a yawning fireplace that Graves set ablaze with gesture. Two dark brown leather armchairs were tucked close the fire. 

Graves conjured a third chair as well as a small table and ushered his guests to sit. Newt was still gaping about him as he sunk into the plush cushions. If Newt didn’t know better he’d say he was back in England. Tina’s elbow jabbed at his side. 

“It’s a bit much, I know,” Graves explained, a little sheepish. “I’m afraid I’ve always has a taste for the finer things…” 

Newt really looked at Percival Graves for the first time. The man that looked back at him was different that the one he’d encountered months ago. The differences were barely noticeable, but they were indeed there. This man was a little older; a little more tired, but just as elegant, if not more so because this Percival Graves had lived this skin his entire life. “It’s beautiful,” Newt replied, a little breathless. 

Graves smiled to himself, seeming pleased as he set about wandlessly conjuring tea. As he flicked his wrist here and twirled his fingers there, Newt began involuntarily crafting a description in his mind. _‘…a unique breed that uses wandless magic with ease. It prefers to make its nest of the finest things but hides and interior of possible fear…’_ He cut himself off with teeth to his lower lip. He bit down hard, chiding himself for his ridiculousness and invasion of this man’s privacy. For that was what Percival Graves was: a man, not a beast.

“So, Mr. Scamander,” Graves began.

“Please,” Newt said, immediately regretting that he’d interrupted the Director. “Call me Newt.” 

“Newt…” Graves mused, his voice smoky smooth, as he handed Newt his cup of tea. Their fingers brushed. 

Newt would have never admitted it was anything but tired, travel-worn hands that caused the cup to slide from his grasp. 

“Oh no!” Tina gasped, going for her wand, but Graves was faster, arresting the cup’s tumble to the floor in mid-air. Then, with a slight motion of his hand, the cup traveled back upwards, righting itself on the table in front of them, contents steaming happily. 

“Bugger!” Newt exclaimed, wanting to sink whole into the chair and disappear. "I’m so sorry, Mr. Graves. I—” 

“It’s alright, really. Just an accident. No harm done. I’m sure you’re exhausted from your journey.” Graves gave Newt a reassuring smile. 

Newt cast his eyes down. “Quite,” he mumbled. 

“So, Newt,” Graves began again, waiting for Newt’s gaze to rise at least halfway back up. “Auror Goldstein here has told me much about you. She described how you helped to save this entire city as well as kept our existence a secret from the minds of the no-majs. This city owes you a great debt. I can only apologize to you both on my part that a dark wizard wreaked such havoc and endangered both your lives while wearing my countenance." 

It was Newt’s turn to be taken aback. A quick glance at Tina and her dropped jaw revealed that she was just as aghast. 

“No, no, Director!” Tina spluttered, setting her teacup down with a rattle. “Please don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault!” 

Was Graves really apologizing for the actions of such a despicable man simply because he’d worn his face at the time? And it all had come out like he’d been holding those words locked away for some time. 

Newt watched the Director. This refined, graceful man. Graves stared back at him with more poise than Newt felt he himself had ever possessed in a lifetime. And yet, Graves sat slowly running his thumb back and forth across the side of his ring finger. His only tell. 

“Mr. Graves,” Newt said, staring at the pristine shoulder seam of the Director’s pristine black silk wool suit jacket. He blinked rapidly as he spoke, unsure what each word would be as it unfurled from his tongue. “Ms. Goldstein is correct. There is absolutely no need for an apology. The fact that Grindelwald wore your countenance, as you put it, should be something we, and the rest of New York, ought to be apologizing to you for. We should have noticed something was amiss much sooner and even perhaps done a better job of protecting you in the first place. We can only thank Merlin you were under the vise of a sleeping charm the whole time and not something worse.”

On his last few words, Newt let his eyes trail back to the other man’s and found Graves’s fingers had stilled and something simmered behind his dark eyes. 

Oh Merlin, he had said something wrong. 

The Director’s voice was quiet but concentrated as he spoke, his eyes never leaving the younger man’s. “You of all people need not apologize to me. Though your words are tremendously kind and do mean a great deal to me.” 

Tina averted her eyes away from her boss’s emotion out of respect. Something caught her gaze. “Oh hello there!” 

The two men turned towards her in confusion and found she was looking at Newt’s chest. Newt glanced down and discovered Pickett halfway out of his breast pocket and peering around his lapel at Graves. 

The man in question tilted his head to one side. “That’s a Bowtruckle, is it not?”

Newt’s head shot up to look at Graves. His brows furrowed but a hazy smile ghosted across his lips. “Well, yes. It is.” He looked back down at Pickett and gently tried to coax the little green creature out of his pocket. “Come on now, Pickett. Don’t be afraid. Mr. Graves is a good man. Grindelwald hurt him just like he tried to hurt us.”

Pickett stepped out onto Newt’s palm and eyed the older man, his leaves twitching. “Would you like to visit Mr. Graves and see for yourself? I promise he won’t hurt you.” There was a tiny squeak and Newt leaned towards the Director. “Hold out your hand please, Mr. Graves.” 

Graves did as he was bid and Pickett hopped onto his palm. Newt bit back his delight at the childlike wonder in which the other man gazed down at the creature. Pickett reached out his small hand-branches and Graves brought the creature close to his face. At first, Pickett hesitated, withdrawing several times, but then when he poked at Graves’s nose, he seemed to gain confidence. Graves remained very still as Pickett stroked the length of his nose and then his cheek. He seemed satisfied and patted Graves’s nose once more before turning back to Newt.

Tina giggled despite her duty to professionalism. “I think he likes you.”

Graves laughed too, handing the creature off to his owner. 

“How did you know Pickett was a Bowtruckle?” Newt asked, tucking his little friend back into his usual perch. 

“Your brother told me,” Graves replied, leaning back in his chair and smiling at Newt, a look of knowing dancing in his eyes. “He also told me he had a little brother that he gave a Bowtruckle to before you both went off to war, which is incidentally where I met him.” 

“Oh yes, of course!” Newt exclaimed, sitting forward in his seat. “He just recently told me about you. Said you and he fought together. I was surprised because we usually prefer not to talk about the war, but when I mentioned your name, he was quite keen—almost happy, I’d say.” 

Newt pressed his lips together. He was rambling again. He felt his face grow fiery under the other man’s dark gaze. 

And then Graves smiled at him. “It made Theseus happy to talk about you too. I often turned the subject to you when I saw the anxiety of war about to get the best of him. I learned a great deal about Newton, the younger brother who has a unique talent with magical creatures, and who at first seems shy, but has a huge heart if you coax him from his shell.”

Newt sat with his mouth open, his thoughts and words tangling into a Gorgon knot. He was spared by Graves’s next words. “But I digress, I should let you both go. Newt, I’m sure you’ve had quite the voyage. You must be tired.” 

All three stood, Newt grabbing the suitcase he had tucked beside his chair. Tina glanced from one man to the other and made a swift decision. “Director, could I possibly impose on you to come to dinner at my place? Newt will be there, and my sister, and our friend Jacob. You’ve met Jacob before.” 

The Director looked over at Newt who was staring down hard at his scuffed brown boots. “Of course, Tina. No imposition necessary.” 

It might have been a trick of the light, but Graves thought he saw the younger man’s face brighten just a little bit. 

“Unfortunately, I will be about another hour if you can wait that long to eat. If not, I understand.” Graves waved away the remnants of their tea. The table was empty and spotless in less than a moment. 

“No problem!” Tina replied almost clapping and turned to Newt. “I just need to wrap up a few things. I can join you in about fifteen minutes if you want to head to my place. Queenie and Jacob should already be there.” 

“Alright,” Newt said, hugging Tina goodbye and slipping his book into her pocket. He faced the Director and held out his hand. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Graves.”

The older man shook is hand. It was large and smooth and warm around his own. “Likewise. And please, call me Percival.”

“Percival…” Newt echoed. The name was like tinkling silver on his tongue. He liked the taste. 

Newt left the building in a slight daze. As he stepped out onto the street, he glanced about briefly to make sure no one was looking before his teeth relinquished his bottom lip. He tipped his head down and smiled to himself, a blush searing a hot band across his nose and the tops of his cheeks. He liked the real Percival Graves a fair bit, but it was a feeling he hastily filed away for later examination as he set off towards the Goldsteins’ new address.

In the end, Newt would always believe it was his own fault. Some wizard he was, with his head in the clouds and his body on autopilot. With all the creatures he’d faced and tamed over the years, he’d still not found how to watch himself amongst the most vicious of them: humans. 

He hadn’t even heard the telltale burst of apparation when two pairs of hands grabbed him from behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh.
> 
>  
> 
> Follow me on tumblr - https://suffer-twice.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to everyone who read, comment and kudos this story. You are who I keep this story going for. I kneel at your feet in supplication.
> 
> Hard stuff to deal with in this chapter. Be warned.

The street in front of him disappeared, giving way to a dark and dank alley.

Newt’s breath was a roaring steam train in his ears as he tried franticly to wrestle out of the vise-like grip on his upper arms, but it was useless. The huge, burly wizards on either side of him were like beams of steel. The one on his left with a dark beard grabbed the case from his hand and flung it down the alley. 

“No!” Newt’s cry came out wretched with panic. It was a voice he almost didn’t recognize. He tore wildly against his confines with renewed vigor, eager to go after his creatures. Hysteria threatened to set in as his heart thundered in his chest. He had to remind himself he was a wizard, and though he had no access to his wand, magic still coursed through him. 

In his travels all over the world, Newt had once stopped near Mount Emei in the Sichuan province in China to study the Chinese Fireball dragons. There, he’d spent six months living in a temple with wizard monks and fell into studying under them. He was a dedicated and talented pupil. He learned quite a few ways to defend himself most wizards around the world had never even heard of. 

Taking a breath, Newt focused on his core and allowed the furnace to build and, with an exhale, his magic shot outward, sending flames licking down his arms. His two jailers released him with yelps of pain, but quickly recovered, drawing their wands and attacking Newt with angry red bolts that hit him on either side of his spine. If Newt had wings, the feeling was equivalent to great silver wings being violently rended from his back. He fell to his knees gasping and the flames dissipated. 

Newt’s coat was torn from him and thrown down the alley to join his case. Even from this far, Newt’s attuned ears heard Pickett’s pained squeak. He crawled after it, clawing like an animal as hands pulled him back. Two of his nails broke clean off as they caught on the uneven ground, but he continued to tear away, the noises bubbling from his throat feral and foreign. 

The two men lifted him by the arms once more and brought him forward to face someone at the very back of the alley Newt had not noticed before. He leaned against the chain-link fence, his arms crossed, watching the events unfold with attentive eyes. He was very tall and very powerfully built and very familiar. His hair was silvery blond and swept back perfectly from his face. Toxic green eyes danced bright as they shifted from Newt’s upturned face down to where his shirt had been torn partially open from the earlier altercation. 

Newt immediately despised him. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…you’ve been quite a bad boy, haven’t you?” the man said, his voice as smooth and dangerous as smoke. 

And then Newt knew. Ice drenched his heart as he realized this was the man from the hallway in MACUSA. 

 _No_ , he would not let this man scare him. Newt glared up at him and let defiance and fire build into his core again. 

“Ah, ah, ah,” the man chided. He straightened his menacing form to its full height, and from the sleeve of his long leather coat, his wand slipped fluidly into his fingers. It was beautiful and sleek and silver. Like his hair. Like it was made of frosty steel. “Oh no you don’t.” 

The tip of Blond Man’s wand (Newt catalogued him as Blond Man in his mind, needing to put a name to the evil) was cold against Newt’s chest as it touched just over his heart. His two captors forced his arms back, exposing more of his pale skin to this terrible man. 

 _‘Exsanguinum Magi…’_ The words rolled from the man’s tongue as Newt felt his very being twisting inside him. Something pulled inward from the tips of his limbs, racing wildly towards his core, like knives slashing through his veins until it all culminated in a horrible knot in his chest. 

Blond Man lifted his wand and gnarled, glowing blue strands clawed their way out of Newt’s chest. The pain blinded him, but he refused to cry out. He grit his teeth as the strands contorted and entwined themselves into a thorny rope that tore its way out, leaving an invisible gaping gash behind. 

For a moment, Blond Man’s wand looked like some hellish whip and then, with a flick of his wrist, the blue rope disappeared. 

The very breath had deserted Newt as he bowed over, sucking in any air he could. He grasped at any remained shreds of magic, trying and trying to reconstruct his core. It was like a match that wouldn’t light. He struck and struck until the match snapped in half. It was futile. 

A hand snaked under Newt’s chin and turned his face up. “There’s no use trying. Your magic is gone. You are no better than a No-Maj now.” Venomous eyes peered down at him, but Newt refused to connect. Blond Man dug his nails in the tender skin of his jaw, forcing him to look back. When Newt finally relented, the hand slackened. 

Blond Man’s thumb stroked across Newt’s lower lip as he looked over the young man’s features. “Such a pretty boy.” 

With no magic left to serve him, Newt did the only thing he could think to show his disgust: he spit into Blond Man’s face. 

A flash of anger seized Blond Man’s features and stepping back, he slapped Newt hard across the face. A No-Maj punishment for a No-Maj crime. 

Newt reeled, seeing stars. He would have fallen over if it weren’t for the human manacles holding him in place. They now stood snickering on either side of him. The man to his right with a scar under his eye licked his lips. 

Blond Man wiped the slippery silver strands from his face and examined them in the dim moonlight of the alley before touching them with the tip of his tongue. “Feisty,” he said like he was making a judgment on a dish, a smile teasing his mouth as he looked down at Newt. 

Newt seethed beneath him. “Let me go!” 

The older man made a mockery of seeming to consider this. “No.” 

When Newt began jostling against his restraints hard enough to tear his arms from his sockets, Blond Man chuckled. “You brought our leader to his knees.”

This made Newt freeze. His head jerked up to face his arbiter. “What?” 

“Did you think there would be no justice to face?” Blond Man went on. “I warned you. Was that not benevolent of me? You should be grateful. I gave you the chance to get away, unscathed. Of course, I knew, and was counting on the fact, that you would not take it. That’s the thing about you, Newt Scamander. You think you’re untouchable. You think that because you brought the Great One to his knees, that you are better than him. We are here to show you the opposite. We are here to show you the truth.” 

“What truth? What Great One?!” Newt shot back. “This is ridiculous! Let me go!” 

“You see? You _do_ think you’re untouchable, irreproachable. You are nothing.” Blond Man bared his canines at his cohorts. “Strip him.” 

Beard Man and Scar Man wasted no time doing as they were told. Newt’s shirt and vest were torn away and his pants were yanked down to his ankles, ripping as they went.

They could have simply vanished his clothing, but this was more shameful, more exciting. 

And in fact, the shame struck him colder than the icy air against his most private parts. He felt his mind cloud over. 

They released him for a moment to divest him of any remnants of clothing. Newt took these small desperate seconds to slip from their grasp. He crawled away as fast as he could, feeling the grit and grime of the New York street biting into his hands and knees. His bloody fingers hurt. 

Pain burst in the middle of his back as someone kicked him down. Newt’s wrist twisted under him, making his yelp aloud. He was dragged back, the skin of his chest scraping almost raw. The men pulled him up onto his knees and Blond Man circled around to face him. He jerked Newt’s jaw with enough force to cause whiplash until their eyes met. “You will now learn what it’s like to lose your will.” 

Blond Man unbuckled his pants and his cock flopped out into his free hand. He was of considerable size. 

Newt looked up in horror, scooting backwards on his knees, but the hands that held his arms back pressed him into place. Blond Man’s thumb peeled Newt’s lower lip down. “Try anything during and I will take the greatest pleasure in knocking out your perfect white teeth.” 

When his jaw was pried open, Newt has no choice but to comply. Kindness was not a term this man understood as he forced himself in to the hilt, striking the back of Newt’s throat. A violent gag boiled up behind his tonsils and tears burned in his eyes. He took several deep breaths to keep from throwing up on the man’s cock. He tasted bitter and dirty. 

Newt had been through very few sexual encounters in his life. Fumbled kisses in the dark of his dorm room with Callum Huxley, a boy two years ahead of him at Hogwarts, were all he had to speak of as any experience. When Callum began touching Newt and pushing him to do certain things, Newt had refused in fear. Callum hadn’t spoken to Newt again after that. 

Newt tried to stay lax as Blond Man unceremoniously fucked his mouth. When he began to grunt, Newt stiffened in protest, but a hand sunk into the hair at the back of his head and pushed him to take the cock deeper and faster. A giggle fizzled from Scar Man, which made Newt retch again. 

Bile rose halfway up his throat when hot acidic cum spurted against Newt’s tonsils. Blond Man’s hand caressed Newt’s cheek as his carnal moan burst in the younger man’s ears. 

Anger roiled in Newt’s chest as he choked and struggled to pull away. Like a cornered animal, without thinking, his jaw clamped down hard on the invading member. It felt rubbery against his teeth. 

A bestial cry sawed the air and Blond Man abruptly pulled back, his cock slipping out with a wet pop. 

Blond Man glared down at Newt, cradling his bloody cock. 

Newt grinned up at Blond Man, cum seeping from the corner of his mouth. 

A steely fist connected with Newt’s cheek like a freight train at full speed. Newt’s vision swam and he was sure his brain had knocked against the inside of his skull. He bit down on his own tongue and fell forwards. He vomited then, spitting a mixture of semen, blood and bile. It swirled white, red and clear. For a moment, Newt watched as it shined wet, blending with the grime of the damp alley. 

Rough fingers in his hair tore Newt back to himself. His breath hissed through his teeth when Blond Man yanked his head back and brought his sweating, beetroot face inches from the younger man. 

“I was gonna go real easy on ya when I fucked ya, stretch ya out real good there. But now…ain’t no such luck, little boy.” Spittle landed in all directions, mostly on Newt’s face, as Blond Man’s local accent pierced through his veil of eloquence. 

“Fuck you,” Newt spat back between grinding teeth.

“Gladly.” 

Newt was then thrown down with enough force that he felt cracks spider through a few of his ribs. Before he could even react, Blond Man rammed his cock into Newt’s ass to the base. Newt screamed out then in excruciating pain as he felt himself tear. A wand was placed to his throat and a silencing charm turned his hoarse cries into harsh breaths. Blood oozed from Newt’s fingers as he made feeble attempts to scramble away. 

Blond Man pumped relentlessly into him. Newt felt the skin of his chest scrape completely raw and his ribs ached oh so much. Filth stuck to his smashed genitals. 

“You boys ready to join in the fun?” Blond Man groaned from above Newt. 

Newt was hauled up on his knees once more, Blond Man still rutting against him. A hand dug into his right hip to keep him in place, another came to wrap around his throat. 

While still holding his arms out, Scar Man closed coarse fingers around Newt’s cock and began to squeeze and slide. Beard Man pinched Newt’s raw and tender nipples between dirty fingernails. 

Noxious shame penetrated even the pores of his skin as his nipples stiffened, and his cock grew hard and began to dribble. Newt mewled and sobbed while the men worked his treacherous body. 

Blond Man’s rhythm became jerky and rushed. He repeatedly struck against a spot inside Newt that served to make the younger man harder and harder. Blood trickled down between Newt’s legs as his assaulter moved with abandon. 

A wet mouth bit Newt’s ear and hissed, “Remember this. You. Are. Nothing.” 

Without warning, hot semen gushed into Newt’s ass and spilled down between his legs to mingle with the blood. 

Blond Man cried out his release and Newt found his own cock spurting into Scar Man’s calloused hand. Newt’s own release indicated by a choked, desperate exhale. 

Newt was then dropped abruptly to the ground, his attackers releasing him. He lay panting, unmoving. A hot mouth neared his ear. “I would put you out of your misery, but it’s more fun this way. We might come back for more, would you like that? Keep you on your pretty little toes. And don’t bother trying to tell anyone. No one at MACUSA likes you enough to help you. You are _nothing_.” 

The hot breath withdrew. There was a round of cackles. Then with a burst, they were gone. 

Completely naked, Newt curled in on himself. 

He should get up. He should get dressed. He should check on his creatures. He should. 

 _Nothing._  

But he didn’t do any of those things. He was emptied of his magic and his will. A hollow husk, shriveled and discarded. 

 _Nothing_. 

He hurt so much and he was so very tired. He couldn’t stop shivering. 

 _Nothing._  

Shame wrapped itself around him like a lover. 

 _Nothing._  

Maybe no one would find him. Maybe he would be lucky enough to die. 

_Nothing._

Somewhere in that moment, Newt’s mind shattered.

_Nothing._

He closed his eyes. And then… _nothing._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This may get repetitive, but I have to begin by saying an enormous thank you from the bottom of my heart to anyone who read, kudos'd, and commented on this story. Even if you never did anything and just read it and had a passing thought of "that was good", you are special to me. I enjoy writing this fic, but I enjoy that you all enjoy it more.
> 
> A bit of a longer chapter this time around.

Percival Graves, Director of Magical Law Enforcement, was not a forgetful man. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he forgot something. 

And yet, tonight he was quite the forgetful wizard. 

Twice, he had to return to his office on his way out. First, to get his scarf. And the second time to retrieve his wand of all things. 

He liked to believe he was the same man he always was, but secret of secret truths be told, Percival felt like he’d been living his life off kilter since everything happened. 

Mediwitches and Healers had examined him physically and mentally over and over until after three weeks, he put a stop to the ridiculousness. Most of MACUSA, Percival himself most of all, were puzzled that he’d only been put to sleep and hidden in his own family crypt for all those months. When Grindelwald had been questioned about this, he simply replied that he _‘didn’t need the messy collateral.’_  

Messy collateral. 

It was all Percival had been chalked up to and it was a term he repeated often in his mind, as much as he hated to do so. It was like he didn’t matter. 

And perhaps, in fact, he didn’t. 

Most of his Aurors still treated him with respect, but as he walked the halls of MACUSA he always felt that he was tailing the wisps of hushed and fearful rumors. He ignored them and did his job. Lived his life. 

His off-kilter, empty life. 

Percival Graves had his fair share of sexual encounters in his life, with both men and women, peppered here and there with a few short relationships. But he’d always thought himself a bit odd because his heart had never been in any of them. And after Grindelwald, he’d put aside any thought of it all together. 

And today he met a boy who righted his tracks a little. 

Newt Scamander. The boy with golden red, messy hair. The boy who had the soft clean smell of fresh cut grass and soap. The boy who made every effort to make Percival feel like he wasn’t someone to be feared. The boy who bit his lip after he spoke as if punishing himself for every word. The boy who wasn’t exactly poised, but no less wildly intriguing. 

Percival laughed and shook his head for being smitten like a schoolboy. He might have apparated to the Goldsteins’ tonight, but he felt he needed the walk to clear his head. He was either on track again or even more off-kilter now. He wasn’t sure which he preferred. 

Maybe this was the reason he almost tripped as he hurried down the dark, chilly street, with the thought of dining with that perplexing boy. 

And then he realized it wasn’t so much a trip as he felt his trouser leg snag on something as he stopped at the mouth of a deep, gloomy alleyway. Something squeaked by Percival’s boot and he glanced down to find something very small and very green. Percival blinked several times before he comprehended he was looking at a Bowtruckle. From the pattern of the leaves and tiny branches, it was Newt’s Bowtruckle. 

“Pickett?” Percival asked, feeling just a little bit ridiculous. Thankfully, the side street he was standing in was deserted. He leaned down to pick up the creature. One of Pickett’s leaves was bent askew. Percival gently straightened it out with his thumb. 

Pickett bounced up and down on Percival’s palm, gesturing wildly towards the alley. 

“You want to go in there?” 

Another sharp squeak. 

For the most part, Percival performed magic without the need for a wand, but when it came to combat, he required it to focus his power. And Pickett seemed distressed enough that he withdrew his wand from his sleeve. He put Pickett on his shoulder, took a breath, and ventured into the depths of the alley. 

At first, Percival wondered if maybe he’d misunderstood Pickett, for the alley appeared quiet and empty. And then, halfway down, he found a brown leather suitcase, fallen over on its side. It was a suitcase he recalled seeing perched next to an armchair in his office today. Newt’s suitcase. The case of creatures Tina talked so much about. The case she said Newt would never be without. He picked it up. 

Just a little further down, he found a long blue coat. A very familiar blue coat he remembered adorning the shoulders of a man who sat in his office today. It smelled of grass and lemon soap. Newt’s coat. 

These items were like morbid breadcrumbs. Percival was reluctant to discover what they led to. 

As he reached the end of the alley, he began to breathe a sigh of relief. It all looked clear. And then something caught his eye and his breath snagged in his throat like a thorn. 

To the common passerby, it looked simply like a crumpled, small white tarp. Or a pile of newspapers. Maybe even a large cat with light fur. 

But Percival knew better. He’d been at this job long enough to know that in the corner, with ripped, discarded clothing next to it, was a body. A pale, curled up, naked human body. 

The prone form’s slim back was to him as Percival slowly stepped towards it. 

As he neared, he saw much of the skin was bruised and the person had reddish curls, matted with grime and sweat. 

The cold dread of recognition drenched Percival and he fell to his knees, his war injury screaming in protest. 

Gently, gently…he touched the icy, pale shoulder and turned the man over. 

Newt Scamander lay beneath his fingers, almost unrecognizable. 

A quiet gasp escaped Percival. 

With a squeak, Pickett jumped down to land near Newt’s head. His impossibly small hands patted Newt’s cheek in a panicked attempt to wake his owner. The creature actually managed to lift Newt’s face a few inches, but the man didn’t even stir. With more care than he would take handling a baby bird, Percival placed Newt’s head in his lap. 

Newt’s eyes were closed and his breath was nearly imperceptible. The cuts and bruises that littered his broken body were almost too many to count. The skin on his chest was severely abraded. And the oddest thing—just over Newt’s heart was a black core that spidered outward like veins. It appeared almost as if the skin was charred, but when Percival traced gentle fingers over the pattern, the skin was raw, but smooth, like the web grew beneath. 

Percival’s hand hovered above Newt’s scraped chest, magic tingling in his palm. 

A thready, uneven heartbeat filled Percival’s ears. 

“Newt?” he asked, his voice not as confident as he would have liked. “Newt? Can you hear me?” 

Newt wouldn’t move. Percival took quick stock of the man’s injuries. 

Newt’s fingers were bloody and a few of his nails were completely broken off. One of his wrists looked swollen. Bruises marred a horrific amount of his fair skin: from his cheek and jaw to his throat to his ribs, his back, his hips and his thighs. A large portion of the skin on his chest looked like it had been scraped raw, like he had been…dragged. But with all this, all _this_ , the very worst part was…the blood and semen running down into a dry crust all over his inner thighs. 

 _Fuck._  

This was a crime scene, but he needed to act fast. He would gladly take the flack from Seraphina later. 

Newt shivered weakly in his lap, like his body was too exhausted to shiver properly. Percival’s hands ghosted over Newt’s face with a warming spell. 

Surprisingly, it didn’t work. 

This had never happened to Percival before in his life. Was it something Grindelwald had done to him when he was under the sleeping charm? 

Now wasn’t the time to ponder or panic about it. He had to get Newt to someone who would be able to help him. Percival wrapped Newt’s coat around his icy form. Then he shrugged off his own coat and draped it on top. Carefully, he patted the side of Newt’s face that wasn’t bruised. “Newt?” 

The faintest of moans escaped the prone man. 

Some relief washed over Percival that there was at least a small amount of coherence. 

“Newt, it’s me: Percival. I’m going to pick you up, okay? You’re going to be alright.” 

Blue eyes barely opened a crack. They were watery and vacant. Newt’s lips parted, but all he managed was a puff of air before he lost consciousness again. 

Percival slipped one arm around Newt’s shoulders and the other beneath his knees. Tucking the younger man against his chest, he stood. 

Percival had considerable strength, but Newt was still lighter than he expected. Pickett climbed from his owner onto Percival’s shoulder again. “He’s going to be okay,” Percival told the little creature, the uncertainty a stone behind his ribs. 

In his sleep, Newt pressed his face against Percival’s chest. 

The older man couldn’t help but bow his head down to brush his lips against Newt’s limp curls. “You are going to be okay,” he whispered. 

He took a deep breath. 

And apparated. 

\-- 

It was a quiet night in the medical ward at MACUSA. 

Vera Fenley, a tall graceful woman with long red hair and sharp green eyes, framed by just a hint of lines that betrayed her age, was the head Healer on call tonight. 

She had just finished patching up an Auror with a twisted ankle. The story he’d given her was that this injury occurred fighting a rogue wizard whose name he’d conveniently forgotten. But seeing as how Vera had heard of no such fight or wizard, and the fact that this Auror mostly worked behind a desk and had come to her sporting a blush to rival a Blood Pop, she was almost certain he’d twisted it running down the stairs. 

When she suggested perhaps this was what happened, he mumbled something about the outrage of missing wet floor signs. So, she healed the poor fool’s ankle and sent him on his way. 

Now that it was tranquil and empty in the ward, Vera took a seat, stirring her freshly brewed cup of black coffee. Her skeleton staff of two Mediwizards and one Mediwitch sat chatting on the other side of the ward. She watched Mediward Bretling lean back in his chair and begin to fall asleep, and felt herself begin to nod off as well, the teaspoon in her cup continuing to stir on its own. 

So, it was no surprise that when the Director of Magical Law Enforcement apparated into the middle of the ward shouting “I need help here, please!” Vera awoke with a jolt, upsetting her coffee, where it splattered the floor and her crisp white uniform. 

There was no time to even cast a cleaning charm when she saw what Percival Graves was holding. 

“Place him here,“ she directed as her staff hurried over. “Quickly.” 

Percival did as he was told and the Healer’s efficient hands pulled the coats off the man’s body with care. 

Vera was silent when she uncovered the horror beneath, but she heard Bretling give a low whistle and Cartwright, her Mediwitch, gasp. 

Vera grit her teeth and pulled Percival aside. “I take it _you_ found him, Director?” 

“Yes,” Percival replied, watching the rest of the team get to work checking Newt’s vitals and cleaning his skin to better assess his injuries. He was glad Newt was out cold. Percival’s stomach was wringing itself like a towel. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way about a victim. 

“Tell me everything you know.” 

Percival did his best detailing how he’d found Newt. When he finished, Vera looked at him with grave eyes. “We will do a thorough examination on Mr. Scamander, but it is obvious what has happened to him.” 

“I know. I would appreciate it if this incident was kept between you four,” he said. The more he thought about it, the more something told him he shouldn’t tell Seraphina about this. It would inevitably become a huge ordeal. This would be worse on Newt if the news spread like a disease around MACUSA. 

For a moment, it appeared Vera was going to argue with him, but then she exhaled in acceptance. Percival knew she was good for it. She had been one of the main Healers assigned to examine Percival after he awoke from the sleeping charm. She had promised to release him from the medical ward despite the fact that his heart pounded every night at the thought of going to sleep, granted that he took good care of himself and came back to her every month for a check up. They’d both held up their end of the bargain. 

“Fine,” she agreed, tossing her long red braid behind her shoulder. “But you will still have to investigate.” 

“I know that,” Percival replied, his tone curt. 

Vera searched the Director’s face as he swallowed down his pain. “I will be honest with you. He does not look good. It is best you wait outside. It will be quiet some time before we are done.” 

“I need to open an investigation and take care of a few things. I will be back before you are finished.” 

Vera turned to go.

“Healer Fenley.” 

She faced Percival again, but was eager to get back to her patient. 

“There are people who care a great deal about Newt. Please…Vera. Do everything you possibly can for him.” Percival’s voice was quiet and beseeching, softening Vera’s rankle. 

“You have my word.” 

The last thing Percival saw before he apparated out was Newt’s limp form being examined. 

He looked almost like a doll.

Almost like he wasn’t alive.

\--

Percival called Abernathy to his office. 

He knew the man would still be at work. Abernathy was always one of the last to leave, even giving Percival a run for his money in the workaholic department. 

The familiar _tap-tap_ _tap_ of Abernathy’s knock at his office door came no later than five seconds after Percival had summoned him. 

“Enter.” 

Abernathy’s excitement was shrouded in a thick cloak of professionalism, but Percival could see the man practically bouncing right out of his shiny brown wingtips. “What can I do for you, sir?” 

Abernathy was one of the few Aurors who held no negative fear of Percival after Grindelwald. In fact, in light of what happened, he was in awe of the Director for getting back to work so quickly. His desire to work with Percival increased tenfold. 

“Abernathy, come.” 

Instead of sitting behind his desk, Percival invited Abernathy to sit with him in the armchairs by the fireplaces, a luxury he only afforded to the Aurors he held in the highest regard. 

“Oh, wow, sir. Thank you, sir.” Abernathy’s words couldn’t come fast enough as he took a seat. 

“At ease, Abernathy.” Percival offered the other man a comforting smile. “I should be thanking you for what I’m about to ask you to do. But I need your word for absolute discretion.” 

“Of course,” Abernathy agreed readily. “Anything you need.” 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with a man named Newt Scamander, correct?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Percival then gave Abernathy a verbal report of what had occurred. By the end of it, the Auror’s eyes were the size of saucers and he looked as if he were likely to swallow his tongue. “Who…who could have done such a thing, sir?” 

“That’s just it. Intuition tells me this isn’t just some random act. What was done to Mr. Scamander seems…personal. Almost vendetta-like. And the fact that it happened so close to MACUSA…it doesn’t sit right with me. 

This is where you come in. I need you to investigate—be my eyes and ears. It would draw too much attention if the Director of Magical Law Enforcement pounded the streets on this case. Whoever did it would see me coming a mile away. Mr. Scamander was overpowered. You may be looking for more that one person. 

I will place my memory of the alley in a Pensieve for you so that you know the location and can see the crime scene firsthand. You have every resource you need at your disposal, but please choose a small team you trust with your life and trust to keep their mouths shut.” Percival waited a beat before he said, “Even from Piquery.” 

Abernathy was stunned for a moment and then he almost smirked at the idea of doing something so illicit. “Absolutely, sir,” he said, getting to his feet. He was swelling with the pride of being given such an assignment. “I will get started right away.” 

“Wonderful.” Percival stood and went to his desk where he conjured a wide, shallow bowl. Placing his wand to his temple, he closed his eyes and withdrew the silvery, translucent strands of memory. They coiled, ghost-like as he twisted his wand down to the Pensieve. 

“I need to go now, Abernathy. View the memory and get your team together. You should report everything you find directly to me.” 

“That goes without saying, sir,” Abernathy told him with a nod. “Don’t worry, we’ll find the beast who did this to Mr. Scamander.” 

Yes we will. 

I hope so. 

I’m not worried. 

Percival wanted to say all of these things, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. 

Instead, he picked up Newt’s case, his fingers tight around the worn leather of the handle. He nodded once at Abernathy. 

And apparated out. 

\--

A sharp knock sounded at the Goldsteins’ front door. 

Tina’s anxious face greeted Percival before he even finished knocking. “Director! Is Newt with you?” 

Percival opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure how to begin while standing on her doorstep. 

She seemed to remember her manners then and stepped aside for him to enter. “I’m sorry. Please, come in.” 

Knowing Queenie’s talent for mind-reading, Percival immediately threw up a mental wall as he followed Tina into the living room. It was a spacious room, but cozy, with several stuffed bookcases and tapestries lining the walls. It was connected to the dining room that held the discarded preparations of what had promised to be a plentiful dinner. For a moment, he saw the ghosts of what would have been five people enjoying a meal, laughing and smiling together. It only lasted a moment. 

He looked back at the living room, with its fretful occupants. Queenie and Jacob were sitting together on the sofa, eager for an explanation. 

“Please have a seat,” Tina said, unease still writ in her voice. 

Percival looked at the offered chair, but could not sit. He felt a cold tingling radiate from his chest out to his limbs. 

There was a sharp gasp and everyone rounded on Queenie. She was on her feet, staring at Percival in abject horror. 

 _Shit._ Apparently, his Occulmency needed some work. 

“Oh my…” Queenie slumped back onto the couch, her shaky whisper barely audible behind the hand hovering over her mouth. 

But they all heard it. 

Jacob placed an arm around Queenie’s shoulders, his brows knit with worry. 

Tina looked at her sister. “ _What_ , Queenie?” 

But Queenie wouldn’t answer, her eyes fixed on the Director. 

Tina, whose hardly tempered anxiety was reaching new heights, eyed Newt’s case. “That’s his case. That’s Newt’s case. He would _never_ be without it. Why do you have it?” Her rapid-fire statements came out harsher than she meant them. 

“Please, Mr. Graves,” Jacob said, keeping his tone even for the benefit of all in the room. “Will you tell us what’s going on?” 

Percival realized he hadn’t said a word since entering the Goldsteins’ residence. His thumb worried a spot on the handle of Newt’s case until it felt hot under his touch. He fought against the lock that had taken hold of his jaw, realizing he looked like a coward. 

Three anxious faces waited for him to speak. 

Percival took Tina by the hand and moved to sit her with him on the couch adjacent to her sister and Jacob. 

“I have Newt’s case because he isn’t capable of taking care of his creatures himself right now,” he began, forcing himself to look each one of them in the eye as he continued into an account of what happened to their friend. This was the third time he had to tell this story, but for some reason, this time was the hardest. Percival found his words battling against the stone in his throat he continually forced himself to swallow. 

All four were quiet for a long time. Queenie cried silently against Jacob, who repeatedly clenched his jaw as he stared at a scratch on the edge of the coffee table. Tina, whose small hand was still tucked into Percival’s, squeezed at her boss’s fingers, her other hand against her mouth, thinking in mute shock. 

For some strange reason, Percival sat replaying the same few moments in his mind. He saw Newt speaking about the Bowtruckle, and his brother, and Percival… In his mind, the moments were silent. They weren’t about the words. They were about everything else. Those long, slim hands flitting like white birds as he spoke. Those guileless blue eyes. That full mouth, tortured by the press of his teeth. And oh how red it looked when he released it to smile. He replayed that blushing smile over and over and wondered if he’d ever see it again. 

Percival realized too late that he might have a mental audience. He looked over at Queenie, who was watching him through wet lashes. There was a small sad smile on her lips. 

“Who would do such a despicable thing?” Tina asked, her tone deceptively even, but watery at its edge. 

“A monster, that’s who,” Jacob replied through gritted teeth. 

“Monster is right,” Percival agreed, and explained to them how he had already opened an investigation and why it had to remain a secret. 

“I’ll help in any way I can,” Tina told the Director. 

“Me too,” Queenie added. “I know I say I don’t use my gift to help MACUSA because they’ll just end up using me, but this is for Newt. So if you need me, Mr. Graves, I’m here to help.” 

Jacob rubbed at the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I might be a umm…a no-maj…or whatever, but I’ll do whatever you ask. For Newt.” 

“For Newt…” Percival repeated softly. He looked at the three people around him and he didn’t need Queenie’s gift to know those two words echoed in everyone’s mind. 

“Can we go see him?” Queenie asked, sitting up straighter, sniffling and trying to wipe away her tears. “Do you think they would let us?” 

This did the trick Queenie had hoped for. Tina’s expression brightened. “Yes, please let’s go see him.” 

“Of course,” Percival replied as they all stood. “They may still be working on him, but we can wait until they are done. Maybe he’ll be awake and we can talk to him.” 

“I know we all want to know who did this to him, but I advise against trying to question him tonight. He’s been through too much. You may have to wait until he’s in a better frame of mind,” Tina said, putting a hand on Percival’s arm. 

Percival bit the inside of his cheek before he nodded. “You’re right. Let’s go.” 

“Guys…” 

All turned to look at Jacob. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something? They won’t let a no-maj in MACUSA.” 

“Oh!” Queenie exclaimed, looking torn. “Well, um, we could…um…” 

“Hey, hey…it’s okay, darlin’.” Jacob wrapped his arms around his girl. “Youse guys go see our buddy. Give him all my love. We wouldn’t want MACUSA knowing I know—again. Plus, somebody’s gotta see to his creatures, right? You go on. Don’t worry about me.” 

Queenie placed a chaste kiss on Jacob’s lips. “You’re the best, honey.” 

Jacob blushed as he released her. 

Percival stepped forward and handed Newt’s case to the other man. He shook Jacob’s hand, both men gripping hard. “Thank you so much, Jacob.” 

“No problem there, Mr. Graves. Just you make sure you find who did this.” 

It was a firm statement, but not a threat. It was a plea. 

“I will,” Percival replied, stepping back into the small group with the two women. 

In a blink, they were gone.

Jacob let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Placing the leather case down on its side, he flipped the latches and lifted the lid.

As he stepped in and began descending the ladder into its depths, he discovered this time around, it was much easier for him to fit through the case’s opening. He’d either lost weight or it had been charmed to accommodate his girth. Knowing just how much of Queenie’s cooking he’d been devouring lately, he suspected the latter.

Jacob smiled at his dear friend’s cleverness. 

“Alright, kids,” he said, reaching the bottom of the ladder. “ _’Mummy’_ may not be present at the moment, but maybe ol’ Nanny here can do the trick.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jacob is the best.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you sooooo very much for the lovely response to this story. I keep it going for you!
> 
> Some good interaction with Queenie and Percival in this one. Percival is in his feelings a lot in this fic, but I feel it's important not to cast him as a stoic, uptight man. He may give off that persona to many, but I think it's good to see what's really inside--Queenie definitely does.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

It was a long time before they heard anything about Newt. 

Tina, never one to sit still at the best of times, was practically worrying a ditch in the tile floor of the waiting room. “What’s taking them so long?” she would occasionally ask the ceiling. This was most often accented by a soft groan of frustration, followed by more vigorous pacing. 

Queenie and Percival were sitting side by side in rather uncomfortable chairs. In comparison to her sister, Queenie appeared relatively stationary. Although, every once in a while, she would switch which leg was crossed as she let out a fluttering exhale and watched the night sky through the window on the opposite wall. 

Percival sat very composed and still, running his thumb along the side of his ring finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. 

He dare not say it, but he was afraid. What if Newt didn’t make it? What if he did and he would never be the same again? He was afraid for Newt and he was afraid of…those peculiar feelings he held for him like a pill beneath his tongue. Like a secret tome he refused to read. His thoughts made the spaces between his ribs hurt. 

“Don’t be afraid.” Queenie’s voice was too quiet for her sister to hear. Tina had taken to pacing the width of the room on the opposite side, as if she were measuring its length. 

“What? I’m not—” Percival began to argue, but cut himself off when he saw Queenie’s face. 

Empathy was etched in the soft lines near her mouth and the slant of her eyes, where he thought he’d find admonishment. And how could he lie to her? She probably knew everything. 

If, in fact, she did, Queenie had the grace to preserve his dignity by not letting on too much. 

“I guess I am a little nervous,” Percival reluctantly conceded, still not able to use the a-word. 

“It’s okay to be afraid, Mr. Graves,” she told him, taking his cool, smooth hand in her small, warm one, effectively stilling his fingers. “We all are. I know you care some about him. That’s okay too, honey. It doesn’t take long to care about someone like Newt. We all cared about him from the moment we met him. Somethin’ about him…you just can’t help it. No matter what he says, he’s like a fragile baby bird. He needs care and love. It’s like nourishment to him. He’s gonna be okay. Maybe not today or tomorrow or even soon. But one day he will, I just know it. ‘Cause he’s got us, y’know?” 

Percival looked into Queenie’s face then and found pure candor. Maybe for the first time in his life, he didn’t feel so alone. “And we won’t leave him.” 

“No we won’t,” Tina agreed. They hadn’t realized she had come to stand beside them. 

He smiled at them, these two women building the strength inside him, and they smiled back, both stemming their brimming tears. 

The door to the waiting room opened then and Vera came in, a hand rubbing her forehead in exhaustion. Percival’s stomach dropped to his boots. He and Queenie stood, eager for news. 

“It’s alright. Please sit,” Vera directed, taking a seat with the three of them. 

“Newt is resting right now,” she began, looking each one in the eye in turn as she spoke, trying to ease their anxiety. “We’ve done what we can for him at the moment. We’ve bandaged his fingers and the severe abrasions on his chest. We’ve bound his twisted wrist and cracked ribs. The…other trauma he sustained will have to be kept clean and heal on its own—he will just have to be careful.” 

She looked to Percival as she said, “It was lucky you found him when you did. I’m not sure how much longer he would have lasted. His body was ready to give up. Like he was willing himself to die. It goes to show just how much our minds and our bodies are connected.” 

Percival wasn’t sure how to answer. Vera’s words _‘give up’_ were a thorn snagged in his mind. The idea of Newt dying had been a stubbornly deniable thought as he’d held Newt’s ruined body in his lap in the alley. But now that Vera had confirmed its very real possibility, Percival’s fist tightened hard enough to draw blood. He couldn’t look at her or any of them. Only open his hand and stare at the purple half-moon shapes his nails had dug into his palm. 

“We had to take the No-Maj route of healing,” Vera went on, “because the oddest thing is…any magical medicine is not working on him.” 

Percival told her about the failed warming spell the he attempted in the alley. “I thought it was just me.” 

“Why is magic not working?” Tina asked, wringing her hands. 

“That mark over Newt’s heart has something to do with it,” Vera explained, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve only ever seen this once before, a long while ago. Very dark arts were used to draw magic out of him.” 

“Exsanguinum Magi,” Percival breathed. 

“Yes, exactly,” Vera confirmed. 

“I’ve only heard of it. I’ve never seen the effects before.” 

“So his magic is gone for good?” Tina was ever the interrogator, but Vera didn’t seem to mind. 

“It may appear that way, but no. There isn’t a spell in the world that will erase a witch or wizard’s magic. This spell drew out the magic that was coursing through him at the time, but his core of magic is still there. Think of it like dousing a bonfire and leaving the embers. With patience and kindling, you can rebuild the fire again.” 

“How do we do that?” Percival asked, his mind already cultivating the twisting vines of half-formed plans. 

“You can’t really do it. Newt has to. Simple as this: he needs to heal. Physically _and_ mentally. As he heals, his magic will begin to return to him. You can only help him on his journey.” 

“And no magic will help him heal?” Percival wondered. 

“That’s right,” Vera replied. “We can only use No-Maj medicine to ease his pain and help him on his way. Unfortunately, that means it will be very slow going.” 

“Can we see him?” Queenie finally spoke. 

It was evident Vera wanted to deny this request, but the three people in front of her so acutely resembled hopeful children, she had no choice but to relent. “Only for a few minutes. I even sent my team home for the night,” she warned when they all stood in unison. “He woke up a few times during the examination screaming. He is heavily sedated because we needed to get our work done and we didn’t want him to injure himself. I doubt he will be awake at all.” 

“I just want to see him alive,” Tina whispered to Queenie as they walked through the door that led into the ward. 

Percival, following behind them, watched Queenie take her sister’s hand and squeeze it tight. For all of Tina’s bravado, her frailty at this moment was evident. 

The ward was a very long room lined on either side with several beds, each with a curtain that could be drawn around it to allow for privacy. All the beds were empty tonight save for the very last bed on the left. 

The person lying in it was almost as white as the sheets surrounding him. The top half of the bed was tilted up and Newt lay broken and small, his half-bruised features grimacing with pain, even in sleep. Ghost-white skin made his freckles stand out in stark contrast, like dark constellations in a summer sky. The hospital gown he wore was open in the front, exposing a bandaged and bound chest, the spidery pattern hidden from sight. His hands clutched at the sheets that covered him to the waist, concealing unseen damage beneath. Some of the tips of his slim fingers were wrapped in bright white bandages. 

Newt’s friends were quiet as they approached, although Percival heard Queenie’s soft gasp and Tina say, “Oh Newt…” 

For his part, Percival could only manage a painful swallow as he realized Newt looked no healthier than he had in the alley—only cleaner. He didn’t voice this thought aloud, but caught Queenie staring at him. He didn’t care to focus on hiding his thoughts from her anymore. 

Queenie’s hand brushed against his back in an attempt to comfort. She didn’t mind that the Director said nothing in return. 

Tina released her sister’s hand and went to sit gingerly at the edge of Newt’s bed. She took up her friend’s hand and grazed the back of it with tender strokes. The red rims of her eyes were bright in her small face. 

Queenie sat in the chair on the other side of the bed. She reached out an elegant hand and ran her fingers through Newt’s messy hair. She caressed his pale brow until the furrows disappeared. 

His friends’ ministrations appeared to visibly calm Newt as the grimace evaporated, replaced by a soft expressionless sleep. 

Percival only stood at the foot of the bed watching the shattered man. He felt no right to touch him or to try to say something to him. Yes, those moments in his office with this strange, otherworldly creature continued to dance in his mind like some far away, unattainable dream, but Percival still didn’t know him. And Newt did not know Percival. 

“You saved his life,” Queenie whispered. She was still looking down at Newt as she spoke. Both sisters looked up at Percival then. 

“Thank you, Director,” Tina said, trying her best to smile. 

“I was only doing my job,” Percival replied, gazing down at the sea blue blanket that covered Newt’s legs. “But you’re welcome.” 

A heartbeat passed before Tina asked, “ _Were_ you just doing your job?” 

This made him look up. He tried not to focus on Queenie’s knowing expression. 

“No…” Percival said, releasing a trapped breath. His concession was barely audible, almost lost in his exhale. But the two women heard it and said nothing more, reverting their attention to their friend. 

Percival’s eyes returned to Newt’s blanket. He struggled to keep the tremors out of his hand as he reached out. His fingers carefully grazed Newt’s ankle over the blanket. He froze when Newt jolted at the touch, but remained asleep. He immediately withdrew his hand. 

“Can you hear him?” he asked Queenie, almost afraid of her reply. 

“Kinda…” she told him, halting her caresses and turning to the Director. Tina replaced Newt’s hand by his side. 

“But not really. His thoughts aren’t coherent,” Queenie explained. “Only pain. It comes in flashes. Hands. Mouths. Screaming. Blood…I’m trying not to focus on it.” 

“You can…see it?” Percival wondered. 

“Not exactly,” she replied and Percival attempted to keep the disappointment from his face. “It’s less an image and more that I can almost feel what Newt is feeling. It can be very exhausting for me. I can’t imagine _actually_ having gone through it.” 

“Oh,” Percival said, feeling a little more than ashamed for getting too excited. “I apologize. I hope I didn’t sound too callous.” 

“It’s alright. I know you was just trying to help him. We all are.” 

A distressed moaning halted their conversation in its tracks. Newt was twisting the sheets in white-knuckled fists, his breathing becoming harsh and ragged. Vera, who’d been hovering only half the room away with the pretense of giving them privacy, rushed over. 

Newt was still asleep as she checked his vitals. “Maybe you three should go home now,” she said without looking back, the faintest thread of concern woven into her words. Newt continued to sob beneath her fingers. 

“Umm…may I just try one thing, please?” Queenie asked, stepping forward. Her actions were much more courageous than her small, timid voice. 

It was obvious that Vera was used to being queen of her castle, but she was also a very shrewd woman. 

“Yes,” Vera consented. She moved aside enough to allow Queenie access to her patient, but only just. “But be careful.” 

“Of course,” Queenie replied graciously. Her hand, with its pretty, shell-colored nails, ghosted a caress across Newt’s brow. 

It couldn’t have been more effective if she had used magic. Newt’s tense muscles began to relax and he leaned into her touch, still gasping for air. 

“Teen, take his hand again,” Queenie directed her sister. 

When Tina wrapped Newt’s hand with her own, his breathing evened and he settle back against his pillow. Almost like nothing had happened. 

Vera watched Queenie, astounded. Queenie blushed when she caught the Healer’s expression. “I’ve been studying healing some. Both magical and No-Maj…” 

Vera was quiet for some time. This woman had a gift. And if she were interested in exploring it, then Vera would help her. It gave her a secret pleasure to see witches and wizards keen on healing. Most everyone these days wanted to run off and become an Auror. It was the _‘cat’s pajamas,’_ as they said. Well, be that as it may, if those pajama’d cats went and got themselves hexed or hurt and there were no Healers around, what then? There would be no cats around to wear pajamas! 

Aside from all that, Vera was surprised to see just how much it had helped Newt to have contact with his friends. If this were the alternative to magical healing, she’d take it. 

“Would you…like to stay here with him tonight?” Vera asked. “I think it might help him.” 

Queenie couldn’t help the ear-splitting grin as she exchanged glances with her sister. “Oh, yes please!” 

Vera nodded her assent. “There are plenty of beds. Choose any one you like.” 

“Thank you so much!” Tina exclaimed. She chose the bed next to Newt’s and Queenie claimed the one next to hers. 

“I’ll send a note to Jacob,” Queenie said. 

Percival watched Newt for a few moments as Vera checked him over once more. He seemed calmer than before, but the darkness was there still, like a black cloud curling at the edges of him, threatening to swallow his delicate features. He remembered the way Newt had flinched at his touch and made a decision. 

“You ladies get some rest. I will see you tomorrow,” he told his two companions. 

“What? Why?” Tina asked, removing her coat and tossing it on the bed. “There are lots of beds here.” 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to stay,” Percival replied, straightening his suit. 

“I think Newt would want you to be here,” Queenie said, watching him carefully. 

“You saw how he jerked when I touched him,” Percival argued half-heartedly. “I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.” 

“Aw, honey. That was just an involuntary reaction. Come on, try it once more.” Queenie took Percival by the arm and led him to Newt’s bed. “I bet my wand it won’t happen again.” 

Percival hesitated. 

“Go on,” Queenie encouraged. 

Ever so cautiously, Percival placed a hand over the other man’s. Newt’s fingers were so thin and cold, the bandages not contrasting enough with his skin. 

The smallest sigh escaped Newt’s throat. 

“See?” Queenie said, smiling when Percival released Newt’s hand. “He doesn’t mind. Now are you gonna stay?” 

“Mmm,” Percival replied noncommittally. He was still reveling in the feel of the pale skin and the sound… 

“Percival Graves.” A stern voice brought him back to himself. Vera Fenley headed straight for him and backed him up until he fell to sit on the bed across the isle from Newt. 

“Yes, Vera?” he said, looking up at her from where he sat, trying and failing not to sound like a disobedient child. 

Vera took hold of his face. She carefully pulled down each of his lower eyelids with her thumbs, inspecting what she found there. Her hands slipped down to the sides of his throat, her fingers surreptitiously feeling out his pulse. Percival suffered these ministrations quietly. “Just as I suspected,” she announced when she finished looking him over. “You’re exhausted.” 

“Oh,” Percival huffed. He rolled his eyes and tried to get up, but Vera pushed him back down with two fingers to his chest. 

“You, sir, need to lay down and rest before you fall over,” Vera stated. She stripped his suit jacket from him. 

“I thought you said you wanted us to leave,” Percival countered rather pathetically. 

“I changed my mind.” Vera removed his boots. “You promised me you would take care of yourself.” 

“Stop treating me like a child.” There wasn’t an ounce of bark to his bite. 

“Then stop acting like one, _Director.”_  

Percival heard the Goldstein sisters stifle their giggles. 

Vera lifted the man’s ankles and guided him to lie down. The beginning sign of a dimple in her left cheek was the only betraying factor to her amusement. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, crossing his arms and turning away from his Healer friend. He would eat his sock before he admitted just how nice it felt to put his head on a pillow. 

Percival never saw the weary look of concern Vera fixed on him for a long while before she turned down the lights and left. 

Queenie and Tina, who had transfigured their clothing to sleepwear, both tiptoed over to Newt’s bed. 

“Goodnight,” Tina whispered, kissing his left cheek. 

“Goodnight, sweetie,” Queenie whispered, kissing his right cheek. 

Percival regarded them as they crept back to their beds. They were like two little girls at a slumber party. He knew they did this in hopes that if they pretended it was a normal, happy night, maybe it would be. 

He stayed awake for a long time after the two women were snoring softly. Curled on his side around his pillow, he watched Newt. 

The only light in the ward was a floating, illuminated orb by Newt’s bed. In its wan, warm glow, with his bruises in shadow, the boy almost appeared healthy. His chest rose and fell almost evenly. His hair, brushed back from his face, almost looked like spun gold. 

“Goodnight, Newt,” Percival whispered in a quiet breath, wishing the other man could hear him. 

Percival closed his eyes to sleep, his heart thumping in his chest as it had done every night for a long time. 

But maybe, just maybe, tonight it was for a different reason entirely.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Percival...you're already deep in it, whether you realize it or not.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say except thank you as always for your boundless support of this story no matter how you show it. Your enjoyment fuels my motivation to keep writing it!
> 
> The investigation begins in this chapter, with it building in full force in the chapters to come. Newt finally wakes in this chapter too...
> 
> Enjoy!

“And that’s all you found?” Percival wondered aloud. He was sitting in his office once again with Abernathy. 

The Director had awoken very early that morning, before the golden fingers of the dying summer sun even thought to poke over the horizon. He’d put on his boots and jacket and then, almost as if he’d anticipated it, a small paper bird began pecking at the window. 

Percival crept to the glass and let the bird in. It swooped a lap around his head once before unfolding itself into his awaiting hands. 

A short missive from Abernathy requested a meeting. 

Percival cast a glance at Tina and Queenie after leaving them a note. They still slumbered, deep in the hold of Morpheus. 

“Please let me go…” 

Alarmed, Percival’s gaze darted to Newt. But Newt’s eyes were still closed and everyone else remained asleep. Newt’s cry was too soft to wake them. Percival debated going to him. Was it a passing dream? Would Newt drop off its edge and back into oblivion? If he went to him, would he just make it worse? 

Feeling more than a little absurd for his constant indecisiveness, Percival set his jaw and forced his legs to move. 

As he slowly approached, he could see how Newt’s downy blond brows knit together in anguish. His breath rushed in and out of him, his chest seizing in jagged gasps. 

“Stop! Get off of me!” Newt whimpered. He began to scratch aggressively at his chest, like he was trying to gouge his lungs out. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, Percival shot towards him, his hands closing over Newt’s. The younger man fought against him for a moment, jerking as if charged by electricity. Then, he stilled. Thankfully he hadn’t managed to hurt himself any further. Newt was breathing hard, the wingbeat of his pounding heart fluttered against Percival’s hands. 

They were frozen like this for some time, until Percival felt the cords and sinews of Newt’s hands gradually begin to relax. When he was sure, Percival folded them gently over his heart and released him. 

Newt’s face was mercifully even now. Before he left, Percival indulged an urge by touching the very tips of his fingers to the very tips of the curls that fell against Newt’s brow, relishing in the feathery softness. 

And now, here Percival sat across from Abernathy, turning a photograph over in his hand. 

“Yes, sir,” Abernathy replied. “Aside from Mr. Scamander’s torn clothing, that’s all we found.” 

Percival continued to study the photograph. Abernathy’s team had taken it when they visited the alley. 

The photograph depicted a walk down the length of the alley. The view explored the building walls and concrete ground, all of which were covered in the typical filthy, oily varnish of years of waste and neglect. As the moving picture reached the back of the alley, it panned over Newt’s clothing, laying eagerly torn and discarded like the wrapper of a child’s sweet. Percival’s stomach begged to heave, but he refused its incessant request. 

The view went through a fettered door in the chain-link fence that served as an end cap to the alley. It came to a stop a few feet deeper—at a grimy brick wall that looked like it hadn’t seen the hand of man in a century. Brick after brick it scanned until it halted abruptly upon an odd little shape situated about waist-high and just left of center. 

It was a depression in the brick, no bigger than a galleon, crusted over with dirt and easily missed. A small triangle that encased a circle, bisected with a vertical line. 

“Have you ever seen this symbol, sir?” Abernathy asked. 

“The Deathly Hallows,” Percival said, his voice quiet in thought. 

“From the children’s story?” 

“Some wizarding families like to believe that, but they are, in fact, real—even though no one knows where they are now.” 

“Do you think it has anything to do with what happened to Mr. Scamander?” 

“I wonder…” the Director mused aloud. He racked his brain, pulling loose, frayed threads and trying to weave them together to no avail. He shook his head. 

“I may need some time to think this over,” he told him. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest. You’ve been of the utmost help, you deserve a few hours of sleep if I’m not mistaken.” 

Abernathy exhaled a laugh, reluctant to admit his exhaustion, but as the Director looked at him, he could see the lines near his eyes were a little deeper than yesterday, the set of his mouth a little tighter. “Thank you, sir,” was all Abernathy said. 

“No, thank _you_ , Abernathy,” Percival said as they both stood. “I’ll be in touch before the day is out.” 

“Copy that, sir.” 

They shook hands. 

“Sleep tight,” Percival told him. He winked, then apparated out. 

\-- 

The sun had begun to yawn and awaken as Percival arrived at his apartment. 

The apartment was much like his office: all dark, rich wood and thick Persian rugs. Ancient masks and weapons gifted to him by wizard chiefs from his travels all over the world hung in his study and sitting room—where most wizards hung family portraits. 

The apartment was much like him: dark, intimidating, and a little bit lonely. 

As he entered his bedroom, Percival peeled off the layers of his clothing, his breath becoming more grateful as he shed each article. He could think only of his beckoning shower. 

He removed his jacket, remembering the hushed argument he’d had with Pickett that morning in the dim and quiet ward. Pickett wanted so much to go to Newt, but Percival made him promise to stay with Tina and stay out of sight or else Vera would have a heart attack that there was a creature in her ward and kick them all out. With the help of a few extra woodlice for Pickett to snack on, Percival eventually won the dispute. 

Stripping down to his underwear, he threw his clothes onto the expansive mahogany sleigh bed. The floor-to-ceiling bay windows flung tiles of golden light over the impressive furniture and across the hardwood floors. Dust motes floated in and out of visibility through the beams of light. Percival thought of stars. He thought of freckles on pale skin. 

Shaking his head, he shed those images along with his undergarments and walked into the bathroom. 

Percival stood unmoving under the steamy jets of lavender water that sprayed him from three sides in the shower. The scented vapor cleared his lungs and the near-boiling water worked its expert, slippery tendrils over his sore muscles. 

The image Abernathy had shown him played over in his mind like a film reel as he began to wash himself. What could the Deathly Hallows possibly have to do with what happened to Newt? Was it connected at all? He’d once heard something about the Deathly Hallows other than their originating lore, but for the life of him, he could not recall what. _Damn it._ He was losing his touch. Percival ruminated over the potential ideas in his mind and let them go with the water he spit from his mouth. 

He worked a rich lather of pine-scented soap over his body, trying to scrub away his frustration. When he bent, the jarring pain of his war injury cried in outrage. He straightened, breathing slowly through his lips as he rode the tide of agony that shot all the way down the silvery scar than ran from the side of his right knee to his ankle. 

It was an ugly and ropy scar, Percival thought, like a skinny Birch tree that refused to grow straight. The scar was what he had to show for his ‘heroic acts of war’ as several—now dusty—medals he’d received seemed to signify. An ugly scar that twinged almost as much as the melancholy that had seeped in and taken up permanent residence in his heart some time during the war. 

When the pain subsided, Percival’s hands crept back into motion. His fingers had continued to tingle—or at least he imagined they did—since he’d brushed them against Newt’s hair that morning. And feeling the boy’s heart flutter under his touch, a bird beating its wings and nudging its beak between the cage bars of his ribs. 

Percival’s soapy, tingling fingers grazed, perhaps by accident, against his cock and he gasped, feeling his cock twitch. Hesitantly, he allowed himself another graze that sent him bracing himself with a hand to the slick tile wall in front of him as his teeth clamped down hard over his bottom lip. He remembered Newt’s apple-red, bitten lip. 

And then, he remembered the pale, broken doll lying in the medical ward. 

Percival almost snapped off the shower knob as he blasted mercilessly cold water over his body. He leapt out of the shower stall after a scarce few moments, trying to escape the guilt, tufts of soap suds still racing each other down his back and hips. 

\-- 

Newt was awake when Percival returned to the ward. Or, if one could call him awake as he was, hunched over in the bed with his face buried, retching into a metal basin Vera held. 

Queenie repeatedly stroked his hair with soothing hands, murmuring words to ease his suffering. Her sister sat with Newt’s hand jacketed in her own. 

“It’s okay, darling. Let it all out,” Vera told him. 

Seeing Percival, Tina leaned towards her boss. “Vera says it’s from all the sedatives and the shock of what happened to him,” she whispered. 

Newt continued to dry heave until he weakly pushed the basin away. Falling back against his pillow, his eyes closed as he worked to find his breath. 

His face was even sallower than before, if that was possible, with a hint of watery grey, as if he’d been drained of all blood. The bruises that bloomed across his cheek and throat appeared darker in contrast. Ugly. Like rotten fruit. 

As Vera wiped Newt’s mouth, his eyes opened. There were half-lidded and fully vacant. Someone had completely smashed out the lights in them. He looked at his friends who looked back at him, anxious. If there was any recognition, they didn’t see it. It was disconcerting to see someone they loved look back with such hollowness. It felt wrong. Like looking at a master painting, slashed in half. 

“Newt, I need you to drink this. It will make you feel better.” Vera held a glass of water out to Newt. It took him almost half a minute to turn to the cup she offered, his gaze sluggish and his head filled with something thicker than mud. 

Two bony hands, racked with tremors, lifted to wrap around the cool glass. A line appeared between Newt’s brows as he concentrated on his grip. 

Vera let go of the glass and it slipped through Newt’s weak fingers as easy as the clear water inside it. 

Percival, who had remained still until now, dashed forward, his magic arresting the descent of the cup. 

When Newt’s grasp failed, his lips began to tremble and tears sprung to his eyes. But something odd happened as Percival moved his fingers and the motion righted the glass and its contents. A faint flicker of recognition, possibly remembrance, in those empty blue eyes. The ghost of a hint of a smile that wasn’t actually there. It was small, this odd occurrence. The size of a pinprick. Or a spark from a struck flint. And just like a spark, it was gone as fast as it came. 

A hand to Percival’s back urged him onward. 

“Keep going,” Queenie whispered. 

Percival gathered courage he didn’t have and took hold of the floating glass. He gazed down at Newt, who looked up at him like a feral, hungry animal being offered food by a hunter. 

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” Percival told him, surprised at the calm in his voice. 

A long moment passed before Newt seemed to decide it was safe. He placed a hand on the glass again. The binding on his wrist was like a white shackle. The bandages on his fingertips were rough and wrong against Percival’s skin. 

Even as Percival tipped the glass to the boy’s chapped lips, Newt continued to stare up at him. 

Once, when Percival was six years old, he found a little orange kitten in the garden of his family’s sprawling manor. His mother, instead of turning it away, had helped him by conjuring a bottle of milk to feed the kitten. He’d never seen a creature so delicate and helpless when its tiny paw clutched at the bottle and his fingers, its wide blue eyes looking up at him as he feed it. 

Percival thought of that kitten now. 

Realizing how thirsty he was, Newt pressed the bottom of the glass up, trying to gulp down the water. 

“Slowly. Slowly, honey,” Queenie said, holding out a tentative hand in warning. “You’ll choke.” 

Percival steadied the glass, his other hand coming up to support the back of Newt’s head, near the nape of his neck. The hair there was downy and soft. Almost too soft. Like a baby. “Shh…” he found himself saying quietly, hoping to soothe the boy beneath his fingers. The set to Newt’s shoulders relaxed. 

When Newt finished the water, Percival helped him back onto his pillow. Newt closed his eyes, a grimace appearing on his face. He began to moan, one hand coming up to claw at his bound chest, the other scratching at the blanket beneath him. The sound of his bandaged fingers against cotton was rasping and discordant. Percival’s anxiety rose with each scrape. He seemed to feel it in the back of his throat. 

Vera approached Newt and stilled his hands. “Oh, I know it hurts, my love, but it will heal.” She turned to Queenie. “I have to change his bandages. Would you like to help?” 

“Sure,” Queenie replied in her ever-breathy tone. 

Tina pulled Percival to sit with her a few beds away so the two women had room to work. “So, how’s the investigation going?” she asked, trying to distract him as he watched Newt. 

Percival explained to her what he saw in the photograph from Abernathy. 

Tina frowned. “The Deathly Hallows…you think it’s connected to…?” 

“I’m honestly not certain. I have to get back to Abernathy with the next move, but at this point, I’m not sure what that would be.” 

“Is there something I could do to help?” Tina’s voice was small and hopeful. 

Percival picked at an invisible stain on his pants legs with his thumbnail. “I promise you, Tina, when I can use your help, I will.” 

They were both silent. Tina dipped her head as she listened to Newt strangle his own breath, willing himself not to cry out in pain as Vera and her sister changed his dressings. A hand suspiciously swiped at her eyes a few times. 

“Had he just woken up when I came in?” Percival asked quietly. 

“Yeah…he woke up disoriented and scared,” Tina explained. “He didn’t know where he was. He had a panic attack. Queenie told me she’s going to see about getting him released to go home with us sooner rather than later. We both think it will help him to sleep and wake up in a real home.” 

Nausea mounted in Percival’s throat as he imagined what Tina described. And then he realized it was nausea caused by a roiling rage. He felt it bubbling in his gut, a cauldron blistering over a fire. The ever-present question beat in his mind: who could have done this to a creature as gentle as Newt? The wrath rose and permeated him, spiraling out to fill his limbs, like putting a hand in a glove. Percival tempered it before it blinded him. He felt his mind go into overdrive. 

“He’s been through so much,” Tina went on, oblivious to the storm seething inside the Director, which was perceptible only in the slightest uptick of his breathing. “But I’m proud of him, because he fought. He’s always been a fighter. Even against Grindelwald when he questioned him.” 

The thing about Tina was she never referred to Grindelwald in the guise of Percival by the Director’s name, even though at the time, he had her fooled. She truly separated the two men in her mind, much to Percival’s relief. It was more than he could say for a lot of MACUSA. 

“What did he say to Newt?” Percival wondered. 

“Well, when he seemed to want the Obscurus in Newt’s case to use for mass murder, it’s like he was trying to gauge Newt to see if he could get him on his side. But even faced with execution, Newt told him he wasn’t one of Grindelwald’s followers.” 

It was like everything in the room ground to a halt, and then snapped into place, sharp as a blade. If Tina continued on, Percival didn’t hear her. One word turned the cogs in his mind. Click click click. 

 _Followers._  

“You should’ve seen the look—” Tina cut herself off when Percival suddenly stood. 

“Of course,” the Director mumbled, and then more clearly. “ _Of course._ Tina, you’re a genius. Followers! _That’s_ what I’ve heard about the Deathly Hallows. The symbol can be used to seek out followers. And that’s what Grindelwald was after: followers. I don’t know if it’s connected to Newt, but if there’s a chance it is, I have to see where this lead takes us. Tina, I could just kiss you!” 

In fact, Percival did just that. He took hold of the lithe woman by the arms and planted a deep, grateful kiss on her cheek. 

A hot flush seeped up Tina’s neck to coat her cheeks. 

“I have to go. I’ll let you know what I find!” 

The Director was gone before she could even reply. 

Tina was left to brush her fingers against her cheek, a laugh bubbling in her throat. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Percival Graves this enthusiastic about a case. 

He was finally coming back to life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the sleuthing begins! The next chapter opens with one of my favorite scenes I've written so far.
> 
> Until next time...


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